


Hamlet, the Melancholy…Monkee?

by Madame (McKay)



Series: The Monkees Soap Opera [5]
Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 21:53:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10817487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKay/pseuds/Madame
Summary: The Monkees perform Hamlet, and Shakespeare rolls over in his grave. Magdalene arrives.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 1998. Any song lyrics belong to The Monkees. They aren't original to me.

"Okay, so tell me again what we're doing here," Micky hissed out of one corner of his mouth, casting a dubious eye at the young woman bustling back and forth from backstage, a clipboard tucked into the crook of one arm.

He, his three room-mates and Isabel were all gathered on a narrow, wood-floored stage in the tiny auditorium of a local theater--the Sand Dune Community Play House, to be exact--which looked more like a 1950s movie theater, complete with red velvet seats and a crimson velvet curtain with gold fringe and tassels. All that it lacked, he thought with a derisive snort, was popcorn all over the floor, gum under the seats and a bunch of screaming kids hanging over the rail in the balcony.

But it was a theater, and there was to be a theatrical performance there--and they were supposed to be in it.

"C'mon, Mick, be a sport," Mike chided quietly in response. "Davy said she needed all the people she could get to round out the cast. We'll probably just be extras or something."

"Yeah, well, what I don't understand is why we are helping his girlfriend!" Micky retorted, scooting to stand behind Mike, thus getting himself out of the director's line of sight.

"It's for a pal," Mike replied amiably, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops as he waited for the opening remarks to begin. "How bad could it be?"

"I remember the last time you said that," Micky grumbled under his breath, still hiding behind his taller room-mate. "I ended up in a dress."

Just then Sasha Duvall--Davy's latest sweetheart--came to a halt in front of the cluster of people milling around and chatting quietly, Peter, Davy and Isabel among them as well. When Davy had appealed to his friends for help on Sasha's behalf, asking them to show up for the auditions at her brand-new community theater troupe, they had agreed in typical all-for-one fashion. And then Davy had even wheedled Isabel into joining them since Sasha needed women for the cast as well.

Now Sasha, a delicate young woman with long blonde hair and big blue eyes that she'd probably used to good effect to talk Davy into recruiting his friends, turned to them with a brilliant smile.

"Thank you all for coming," she began pleasantly. "This is my first shot at directing on my own, and I'm terribly excited, especially since we'll be tackling one of the greatest plays ever written. Shakespeare's Hamlet."

Micky, Mike, Peter and Isabel exchanged horrified looks.

"Hamlet ?!" They chorused with one voice--and then promptly headed for the nearest exit.

"Hold it!" Davy jumped forward, blocking their escape route, placing his hand squarely on Micky's chest; Mike plowed into Micky from behind, and Isabel ended up squashed between Mike and Peter, letting out a muffled protest as she banged her nose on Mike's spine.

"You guys said you'd help!" Davy reminded them in a hushed voice so he wouldn't interrupt Sasha.

"Yeah, well, you didn't say nothin about havin to do Shakespeare," Mike replied.

"Yeah, you left that part out!" Micky added with a dark glare at the shorter man.

"Aw, c'mon, fellas--how hard can it be?" Davy cajoled, his charm control turned all the way on high.

"Have you read Shakespeare, man?" Micky exclaimed, his face growing even more animated than usual as he made his case for bailing. "All thees and thous and good day m'lord, how fare you? How're we supposed to talk like that? Or remember lines like that? It's impossible!"

"Oh, c'mon--just give it a try," Davy pleaded, widening his brown eyes to Bambi proportions to add to the effect. "It would mean at lot to Sasha--and to me. Please?"

The other four looked at each other, wearing identical aggrieved looks. They'd do it. They knew they'd do it. Davy knew they'd do it.

But they didn't have to like it.

When they returned to the group of aspiring actors, Sasha was giving a brief description of each character and their role in the events of the play; Isabel noted with some satisfaction that there were three women in the crowd, and only two female parts, so chances were, she'd weasel out of this--guilt free! After all, it would hardly be her fault if she didn't win the part...And then she could sit in the audience on opening night and applaud while she watched the rest of them "strut and fret upon the stage."

But the smug smile that played at the corner of her lips died when, after giving a cold reading of a few of both Ophelia and Gertrude's lines with Sasha reading Hamlet, Sasha announced that an older woman named Anne Hathaway would play Gertrude--and Isabel would play Ophelia.

"What?" she gasped. "But--but--what about that other girl--she's majoring in drama, for pete's sake!"

Sasha smiled as she handed Isabel a copy of the script, rippling her shoulders in a negligent shrug. "She's also too overbearing and aggressive for Ophelia. I'll cast her as Lady MacBeth in our next production."

Micky, who had burst into a fit of giggles at her vehement protest, stopped laughing when Sasha informed him that he had landed the role of Clown #1, the Gravedigger who sparred with Hamlet. As soon as she gave him the script, he hastily scanned to find his part and started counting lines, breathing a huge sigh of relief when he learned that it was a relatively small part.

After hearing him read a few of Hamlet's lines in his usual disingenuous manner, Sasha declared Peter was too sweet and naive for the lead role--but he would make an ideal Horatio, Hamlet's one loyal friend.

Davy was angling for Laertes, itching to be able to play the hot-tempered swordsman, and he delivered a few lines from Laertes' funeral oration over Ophelia's grave with a passionate flair that won him the coveted part. Grinning from ear to ear, he returned to his friends, already anticipating the duel in Act Five.

One by one, the parts were bestowed until only one was left: Hamlet himself.

"Okay," Sasha announced, clapping her hands together briskly. "Who's left? Who wanted to try out for Hamlet?"

The silence was so complete that they could all practically hear crickets chirping.

"Oh, come on," she exclaimed, bracing her hands on her hips as she frowned a little at her recalcitrant cast. "Someone has to do it! I know it's a lot of lines to learn, but we need a Hamlet!"

Dead quiet.

No one moved lest her gimlet eye fall on them and they would then be roped into the dreaded part. No one breathed too noisily, no one shuffled their feet. Sasha faced a pack of statues, all with eyes averted.

"Please--" she implored them. "If we don't have a Hamlet, this whole production is over before it even gets started."

More silence--and then came a resigned sigh.

"I reckon I can give it a try," came a familiar drawl from the back of the crowd.

Micky and Isabel shared dumbfounded looks as Mike threaded his way to stand in front of Sasha, gazing down at her placidly. Peter grinned and clapped his hands with delight, and Davy shook his head in disbelief.

What was Mike getting himself into?

And what was this going to be like? Hambone Hamlet? Roy Rogers meets Shakespeare?

Almost as one, they crossed their fingers, watching the lanky Texan prepare to audition with varying degrees of dubiousness. Sasha backed out of the way, standing in the wings as she prepared to critique the performance. Unaware of his friends' skeptical attitudes, Mike fetched a tall stool, placed it in the dead center of the stage and sat down, his shoulders slumped, hands dangling between his knees, and staring blankly at the floor. When he began to speak, he used his experience as a musician to maintain the illusion of a subdued voice while actually pitching it to carry throughout the small theater.

"To be, or not to be," he began, his voice laden with a weariness that seemed to issue from the depths of his soul. "That is the question: whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune, or--"

He snapped his head up suddenly, straightening his spine as he stared out over the rows of empty seats, his expression fierce, his hands clenched into fists on his knees. "Or to take up arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposin, end them?"

The flare of spirit faded as quickly as it had come, and he slumped on the stool again, a look of exquisite agony fleetingly glimpsed on his face--and then it was gone.

"To die--" It was a sigh, a plea. "To sleep--to sleep! Perchance to dream--aye." He nodded and gave a bemused snort. "There's the rub; for in that sleep of death what dreams may come?" He spread his hands and lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug.

Pushing himself off the stool, he shoved his hands in his back pockets and ambled with his usual lazy gait to one side of the stage, his expression pensive as he gazed into the distance.

"There's the respect that makes a calamity of so long a life!" he declared with a firm nod. "For who would bear the whips and scorn of time, but that the dread of something after death--" he continued, his voice gaining strength and conviction. "The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn no traveler returns--puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear those ills we have than to fly to others that we know not of?"

He sighed then, the strength dissipating as he lowered his gaze to the floor again, and when he spoke at last, his tone was heavy with defeat.

"Thus conscience does make cowards of us all."

Four jaws hit the floor. Four pairs of eyes went as wide as dinner plates. Four throats were utterly speechless.

Among them, Peter was the first to recover, and he bounced up and down on his toes, beaming happily as he shouted, "Wow! That was groovy, Mike!"

The rest of the cast added their agreement to Peter's enthusiastic approval, moving to congratulate the young man as if his casting in the part were a fait accompli, and Mike accepted their compliments with almost bashful thanks.

"Did you--did you see that?" Micky whispered, nudging Davy in the ribs, not taking his eyes off Mike.

"I think I saw that..." Davy breathed, still spell-bound himself.

They had never guessed their laconic friend was capable of--that!

"If I weren't already in love with him, this would be enough to make me fall," Isabel murmured, a smile of pure joy and pride spreading across her face.

Sasha hurried from the wings, beaming as she applauded loudly. "We've found our Hamlet!" she announced, clapping Mike on the back.

He glanced down at her, bemused, and then a thought occurred to him, and his pleased expression abruptly changed to a forbidding scowl.

"Yeah, but I ain't wearin' tights!"

~*~*~

Now that the matter of casting was settled, Sasha released them all with the instructions that they should return the next evening for a preliminary read-through of the script. Micky spent the entire trip home poring over his lines, growing increasingly delighted with the part when he realized it was supposed to be funny. Davy was already planning his moves for the duel, occasionally reaching over the seat to jab Mike's back using his forefinger as a weapon until Mike had irritably promised to grab Davy and paddle him with his own sword on opening night if he didn't quit.

They were all still nattering about their respective roles when Mike pulled up to the Pad, and, chattering like magpies, Peter, Micky and Davy scrambled out of the car, comparing lines.

"Hold it right there," Isabel ordered, snagging the back of Mike's shirt as he started to follow his room-mates into the Pad. "You're coming with me."

"Oh, really," he smirked, and she shook her head, shooting him a quelling look.

"Don't get too excited," she warned as she clasped his arm and steered him to her own beach house.

Pausing long enough to get her mail, she unlocked the door and preceded him into the house, flipping through the batch of envelopes as she headed to the living room, Mike following in her wake.

"So what's up?" he asked, taking his usual place on one end of her couch and propping his feet on the coffee table.

"Hhm...?" She glanced up at him, a puzzled frown still creasing her brow. "Oh, I just wanted to know something..." She trailed off again, turning one particular envelope over in her hands as she stared at it, obviously confused.

Carelessly tossing the rest of the mail on the coffee table, she tore open one end of the envelope she held, blew it open and pulled out a single sheet of paper. She walked slowly to her end of the sofa, scanning the letter as she did, the crease on her forehead deepening as she read, and Mike watched her with growing concern.

"Something wrong?" he asked, but she just shook her head.

"You won't believe who this is from," she murmured, dropping heavily into her seat, her eyes growing wide.

Mike leaned over to catch a glimpse of the mysterious letter, and she held it out for him to read for himself. He took and read it, then glanced up at her with a little shrug.

"Who's Magdalene Bennett?" he asked.

"Gram's companion," Isabel replied, and comprehension dawned in Mike's face. "Former companion, it looks like," she added wryly. "I think you met her once."

"Yeah," Mike nodded slowly. "She was with your grandmother that time. The quiet girl. Real serious lookin."

"That's her," she confirmed.

Mike glanced at the letter again, frowning a little himself this time. "I don't get it," he said at last. "I didn't think you were friends, so why does she want to come here?"

"I have no idea," she replied as he handed back the letter. "She started working for Gram about six months before I moved down here, but she's so--distant. I never felt like we got to know each other that well." She paused, her expression turning thoughtful. "She never struck me as the type to make friends easily. Maybe that's why she's turning to me now. I'm the closest thing to a friend she's got!"

"Strange..."

Isabel shrugged and tossed the letter aside for the moment, shifting positions so she could look at him. "Well, frankly--" She screwed up her face in an exaggerated grimace. "--I feel like I owe her just because she's put up with Gram all this time!"

"Well, as long as it's not too long," Mike grumbled, folding his arms across his chest. "Over here is the only place we can have five minutes alone without someone bargin in."

She leaned forward, smiling as she pinched his chin playfully. "Don't worry--I'm not thrilled with the idea of a full-time room-mate. I'll tell her it's okay for her to stay until she finds another job. Then she'll have to find her own place."

"Good," he replied firmly, leaning forward himself, but before he could kiss her--as he obviously intended to do--she placed a finger against his lips, shaking her head.

"Uh-uh--stop right there, buster--you owe me an explanation," she informed him, giving him her best stern glare.

"About what?" he asked, then nibbled her finger until she jerked it away and stuck her tongue out at him.

"Quit trying to distract me," she admonished. "I want to know how in the world you just happened to stroll on-stage and reel off the 'to be' speech from memory."

"Oh, that."

"Yes, that," she mocked, punching his shoulder. "Care to explain that one?"

Raking his fingers through his hair with an embarrassed little smile, he shrugged and slanted a side-long look at her."Well, my high school English teacher made our class memorize that speech," he explained. "I liked it, and it stuck."

"You liked it?" Her eyebrows almost disappeared into her hairline at that one.

"Yeah..." He gave another self-deprecating shrug. "Well, it's true. I mean, everybody gets bummed sometimes, but most people don't kill themselves 'cause we don't know what's gonna happen after we die. We may have faith, but we don't know for sure, and that's real scary if you think about it. So it's easier to put up with all the heavy stuff goin on than take a chance on gettin into something worse...or nothin at all."

Isabel's lower jaw dropped, her eyes widening as she stared at him with growing admiration and respect. She knew there were hidden depths behind that low-key facade--it was, after all, one of the things that intrigued her about him--but he tended to reveal them at odd moments that invariably caught her off-guard.

Like now.

"Y'know..." she said faintly. "People throw out quotes from Shakespeare all the time, but I have to wonder if they really get it."

He gave her a skeptical look. "What's not to get?"

~*~*~

"I don't get it," said Peter, scrunching up his face as he stared at the script in his hands. He was perched on a tall stool on the left side of the stage, almost hidden in the wings as "Polonius" and "Claudius" ran through a scene together at center stage.

Sasha rested one hand on his shoulder as she peered at the page he was studying. "What don't you get?" she asked. The two actors rehearsing now had enough experience that she felt safe leaving them alone for a moment while she attended to some of the novices.

"Well..." he began slowly. "Horatio is Hamlet's best friend, right?"

"Right," she said, nodding encouragingly at him.

"But if he's such a great friend, why doesn't he do anything?" Peter glanced up, his expression disingenuous. "He never tries to help Hamlet. He just kind of stands around."

Moving to stand in front of him, she drew her brows together as she puzzled over his seemingly innocent, simple question. But the truth was, Horatio's inaction had never struck her before, and she scrambled to come up with an answer that would fit with the interpretation they were working on.

"Well, part of it is Hamlet's fault," she began, and Peter gazed at her raptly, obviously giving her his complete attention. "If you think about it, he really doesn't tell Horatio much. The only person he admits the truth to is Gertrude, so Horatio spends a lot of the play in the dark."

"Oh..." he nodded, comprehension dawning in his face. "He keeps everything to himself."

"Sounds like type-casting to me," Micky--who was loitering with Davy nearby--whispered. Fortunately, Mike was on the other side of the stage and didn't hear.

"Right," Sasha agreed. "And even if Horatio did know what was going on, there's not much he could do because he's not a family member or even part of the Danish court. He's an outsider--basically powerless. All he can do is be there for Hamlet."

"Oh..." Peter breathed, his eyes growing distant as he appeared to concentrate for a moment. "So all he can do is give Hamlet support."

"Exactly!" she exclaimed, squeezing his shoulder. "Does that help?"

"Yeah!" he grinned.

Those deep dimples flashed at her, and Sasha felt unaccountably weak in the knees as a result. Oo, but that smile was lethal...

"I can do that!" he added, and she forced herself to remember that she was supposed to be Davy's girl.

"Good. Ready to try the scene now?" Back to business, she thought with a rueful sigh.

"Polonius" and "Claudius" had finished and were headed backstage, and she grasped Peter's hand, leading him to center stage and waving for Mike and the young man playing "Marcellus" to join them.

"Pick up with Act One, scene two with Hamlet and Horatio," she instructed. "Peter, begin with 'Hail to your Lordship'."Scripts in hand, Peter and Mike faced each other, both scanning the scene briefly to get an idea of what to expect. Peter's lips moved silently as he read over his lines, his head bobbing a little and his hand twitching as if he were running through the whole thing already.

Finally he looked up and smiled, and Mike raised an eyebrow at him.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Ready!" Peter nodded.

Then, without warning, his face changed, the cheerful smile disappearing and replaced by a much more somber, thoughtful expression.

"Hail to your Lordship," he delivered the greeting with a slight degree of hesitancy as if he weren't certain how he would be received.

"I am glad to see you well," Mike replied, his face mirroring the sincerity of his words. "Horatio, or I do forget myself."

Peter visibly relaxed, the concern at being remembered obviously allieved. "The same, my Lord, and your poor servant ever," he said, smiling at last.

Mike shook his head vehemently. "Sir, my good friend, I'll change that name with you." He held out his hand then, and Peter grasped it in both of his own, beaming happily. "And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?"

"My Lord," he said hesitantly, his face alight with sympathy. "I came to see your father's funeral."

"I prithee do not mock me, fellow student," Mike said with a sardonic bark of laughter. "I think it was to see my mother's wedding."

"Indeed, my Lord." Peter shook his head with a rueful half-smile. "It followed hard upon."

"Thrift!" Mike exclaimed, his voice dripping undiluted sarcasm. "Thrift, Horatio! The funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest foe in Heaven or ever I had seen that day, Horatio," he snapped, anger and resentment fleeting across his face, replaced by melancholy once again. "My father," he sighed. "Me thinks I see my father."

Peter glanced at him, startled and a little hopeful--had he seen the ghost too?

"Where, my lord?" he asked cautiously, not wanting to commit himself prematurely in case Hamlet didn't mean the same thing he did.

"In my mind's eye, Horatio," was the reply, and Peter's face crumpled into lines of disappointment.

He wrung his hands, doubt clouding his features for a moment, then he drew in a deep breath and took the plunge.

"My Lord, I think I saw him yesternight," he said all in a rush as if he wanted to get the words out before he lost his nerve.

"Saw who?" Mike asked absently, still lost in his own morose thoughts.

"My Lord, the king your father," he answered, placing a gentle hand on Mike's arm as he spoke.

Mike turned a sharp, questioning gaze on him. "The king my father?" he echoed, and Peter nodded.

"Okay, cut!" Sasha yelled, clapping her hands to break off the scene. "Good job, fellas. Now let's block the court scene, okay? Gertrude, Claudius, you're up! Hamlet, you're a little more than kin and less than kind. You with me, people? Hustle up!"

And, dragging and grumbling, the troupe assembled on-stage once more, ready to get the staging down so they could finally go home.


	2. Chapter 2

Micky, Peter and Davy settled on the couch, turned to face the dias at the back of the room from which all their instruments had been temporarily removed; they had converted it into a mini-stage while they were rehearsing the play. Now all three of them rested their arms on the back of the couch, waiting for whatever Mike and Isabel had gathered them together for to begin. Micky glanced over at his companions, grinning when he realized what they must look like, and he poked Davy with his elbow; when Davy looked at him, he covered his ears with his hands. Davy stared blankly at him for a second, then grinned, nudged Peter, and--when he looked--covered his mouth with both hands. The delay was slightly longer this time, but once Peter caught on, he slapped his hands over his eyes.

From the raised platform, Isabel laughed and shook her head, but when Mike turned to see what was so funny, all three of them were sitting there like perfect angels with identical "who, me?" expressions.

Mike, who was used to that sort of thing, ignored them. "Okay, me and Isabel talked about this, and we want your opinion on how we're doin this scene before we show it to Sasha."

"Right," Isabel nodded. "There's lots of ways to play the scene, but we wanted to try it this way. Micky, you be Polonius, okay? Go stand over by the table, and when Mike says, 'Go thy ways to a nunnery,' act like you're spying on us."

"Right, spying--yeah, baby--" Micky jumped up from the couch and moved into the kitchen, leaning against the small table as he watched.

"Ready?" Mike directed the question at Isabel, who gave him a teasing look.

"Yes--just don't break my wrist this time, okay?"

He shot her an aggreived grimace, but didn't reply; meanwhile, she picked up a box she'd placed at the edge of the make-shift stage earlier, and, at his nod, started the scene.

"Good my lord, how does your honor for this many a day?" Isabel made her voice as prim as possible, trying to appear awkward and shy, her eyes downcast.

"I humbly thank you; well," Mike smiled with bemusement at Ophelia's apparent discomfort. "Well, well."

"My lord," she began hesitantly, pausing to dart an uncertain look up at him as she offered him the small box, holding it out in both hands. "I have remembrances of yours, that I have longed long to re-deliver; I pray you, now receive them."

He raised both eyebrows, a devilish twinkle in his eyes as he replied with a too-innocent air, "No, not I. I never gave you ought."

The roguishness in his voice gave the words a double meaning to both Ophelia and Isabel herself, and she didn't have to fake her embarrassment--her cheeks stained pink as she answered in a tight, disapproving voice, "My honored lord, you know right well you did."

And the implications of that statement made her blush even more--he hadn't warned her he was going to say it like that!--and made Micky and Davy laugh out loud.

"And with them," she continued, managing to sound affronted. "Words of such sweet breath compos'd as made the things more rich; their perfume lost, take these again; for to the noble mind, rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. There, my lord." And she shoved the box into his stomach with more vehemence than necessary, drawing a ripple of amusement from their small audience, including Micky whose giggles threatened to interrupt the scene.

Cradling the box in one hand, Mike opened the lid and sifted idly through the contents, seeming lost in thought a moment; when he looked at her again, his voice and expression were much gentler.

"Are you honest?" he asked softly, holding up a folded letter from the box and waving it in front of her face.

She glanced away, obviously not wanting to look at the love-letter. "My lord?" she whispered, a plea for him not to force such memories on her.

"Are you fair?" He returned the letter to the box and snapped the lid shut again.

"What means your lordship?" she asked, visibly puzzled.

"That if you be honest and fair," he explained in a tone generally reserved for small children. "Your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty."

She lifted a sceptical eyebrow. "Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?" she countered.

"Aye, truly," he nodded. "For the power of beauty--" He reached out and lightly caressed her cheek. "--will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness: this was sometimes a paradox, but now the time gives it proof." He gazed down at her, a wistful look passing across his face. "I did love you once."

She bowed her head briefly before looking up at him again. "Indeed, my lord," she replied softly, nodding her agreement as she spoke. "You made me believe so."

"You should not have believed me," he replied flippantly, tossing the box over his shoulder.

The lid popped open as the box hit the floor, spilling its contents everywhere; she gave a startled cry and lunged forward as if to rescue the strewn items, but he caught her arms, forcing her to look at him.

"I loved you not," he declared, his voice low and intense.

She gazed up at him for a moment, visibly astounded, but something made a gentle smile touch her lips. She reached up and cupped his cheek in her palm.

"I was the more deceived," she said, her tone implying that she hadn't been at all, that she could see through his game.

He covered her hand with his own, smiling a little in response. "Get thee to a nunnery," he teased, his voice and expression affectionate. "Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest; but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me: I am very proud--" he admitted.

Her smile broaded into a playful grin as she nodded vehemently, agreeing with everything he was saying, coaxing laughter into his voice as he continued.

"Revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in. We are arrant knaves all; believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery."

He leaned forward then and kissed her lightly--just as Micky/Polonius threw himself with unnecesary fervor into the role, acting as if he were peeking around an imaginary doorway and pretending his circled fingers were binoculars. Mike caught the--much exaggerated--movement out of the corner of his eye and jerked upright sharply.

"Where's your father?" he demanded harshly, closing his fingers around her wrist in an unbreakable hold.

She stared up at him, slack-jawed, confusion evident in her face as she appeared to struggle with herself over her response. Should she tell him the truth, or should she follow her father's instructions?

"A-at home, my lord," she stammered, flicking a guilty look at Polonius.

But Hamlet knew better, and the blatant lie only compounded the betrayal he felt at her hands; not only had one of the few people he trusted in the Danish court rejected him--refusing to see or speak to him because of her father's orders--but now she was willing to set him up to be spyed upon.

Mike twisted Isabel's arm, his careful movements combined with her cry of pain and agonized expression creating the illusion that he was actually hurting her. Her knees appeared to buckle under the pressure of his inexorable hold, and she tried to wriggle free but to no avail.

"If thou do marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry," he hissed, his voice laced with bitterness. "Be thou as chast as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. To a nunnery, go, and quickly too, farewell."

But he didn't release her; instead he fixed her with an intense, searching look as if he were trying to determine the measure of her guilt.

"I have heard of your paintings well enough," he said at last, and his tone was as cynical and hard as his countenance. "God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another; you jig and amble, and you list; you nickname God's creatures, and make your wantonness ignorance--"

His voice rose as he spoke until he was almost yelling at her, and she cringed, flinging up her free hand to shield herself from his growing wrath.

"Go to!" And with that, he shoved her away so abruptly that she stumbled and fell in a tearful heap at his feet. "I'll no more on it, it hath made me mad. I say we shall have no more marriage; those that are married already, all but one shall live, the rest shall keep as they are. To a nunnery--go!"

He stalked off then; she stretched out one hand after him imploringly, tears streaming down her cheeks, her face a mask of tragic loss, but he didn't look back, and she collapsed, weeping.

"Love?" Peter intoned gravely, deepening his voice as he recited Claudius' line. "His affections do not that way tend."

Isabel popped her head up, all trace of tears gone as a smug grin curved her lips.

"Shows how much you know, shotgun," she retorted as she rolled onto her back, lying spread-eagled on the stage.

"Me or Hamlet?" Mike asked, raising one eyebrow at her as he leaned against the jukebox, arms folded across his chest, legs crossed at the ankle.

"Both." She closed her eyes and released a long, weary breath. "Somebody want to help me up? I'm whacked--that was more draining than I thought it would be."

Suddenly she was aware of a presence nearby, and she opened her eyes to see Mike towering over her prone form, and the glint in his eye let her know he was up to no good.

"Lady," he began, taking in her position with a slow, deliberate gaze. "Shall I lie in your lap?"

"Don't start!" she warned, shaking an admonishing finger at him. "We're not up to that scene yet, thanks."

"You never let me have any fun," he answered mildly, extending one hand to help her up and ignoring the giggles erupting from the couch.

She slipped her hand into his and let herself be pulled upright, then paused in front of him, standing as close as she could, their joined hands trapped between them as she looked up and captured his gaze.

"We can rehearse that part later if you like," she murmured too quietly for the others to hear.

A lazy grin was his only reply.

~*~*~

Temporarily stuck on the article she was trying to write--trying to find polite ways of saying a band stunk was always difficult--Isabel leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes for a moment and relaxed. On the other side of the room, Mike was playing, running through an instrumental piece that she'd never heard him perform before. It was a soft ballad with a definite Spanish feel to it, and she let her mind drift as she listened, his music lulling her into a tranquil meditative state.

The song ended, but she didn't open her eyes, hoping he'd continue; a moment passed--nothing--and then suddenly the world lurched beneath her, and her eyes flew open as she let out a startled cry, clutching the arm rests of her chair tightly.

Mike knelt before her--he had slipped up silently and dragged the chair so that it faced him rather than the desk.

"Don't do that!" she exclaimed.

"Sorry," he replied, but the unrepentant gleam in his eyes belied his words.

"You scared me half to death." She tried to make her tone admonishing, but even as she spoke, she slid to the edge of the seat, opening her knees as she reached out to wrap her arms around his neck. He dragged the chair forward until there wasn't enough room to slide a piece of paper between them, then slipped his arms around her waist.

"Lady, shall I lie in your lap?" he murmured against her lips.Such a tease, she thought fondly, smiling as he nuzzled her cheek, deliberately avoiding kissing her.

"No, my lord," she replied, nipping at his lower lip.

"I mean, my head in your lap," he said, trying to maintain an innocent air, but considering he had eased his hands beneath her shirt and was presently massaging her lower back, he couldn't quite pull it off.

"Aye, my lord," she breathed, unable to tear her gaze away from his; those dark, dark eyes held her mesmerized, and she felt she was completely under his spell.

"Do you think I meant country matters?" he asked in a near whisper as he inclined his head as if he were--finally!--going to kiss her. Anticipation had built up so keen and sharp within her that it was almost painful; her breathing quickened, and she tightened her arms around him, silently urging him on.

"I think nothing--" she began, but he stopped her words with a kiss, and she melted against him, whimpering softly in sheer relief and pleasure at the touch of his lips on hers.

The article, the horrible band she had to critique, the entire world was forgotten as one kiss flowed into another, as she felt his fingers skimming up and down the length of her spine. Her mind grew fuzzy, sending out white static as her body took over, prompting her to--

A sharp knock on the front door jolted them both back to reality, and they jumped apart, startled by the sudden intrusion.

"Give o'er the play," Isabel muttered, slumping in her chair, one hand pressed against her chest to keep her heart from leaping out from sheer fright.

"Lights, lights, lights," Mike groaned from where he lay sprawled on the floor.

"I'm going to kill whoever that is," she growled as she pushed herself out of the chair and stomped to the door.

"If it's one of my room-mates, I'll help."

She yanked the door open forcefully, her expression ungracious and unwelcome as she drew breath to fuss at either Micky, Peter or Davy--for who else could it be?--and found herself gaping at Magdalene Bennett instead.

"Magdalene!" she exclaimed, her eyes growing wide with surprise.

Magdalene took in her flushed cheeks and disheveled appearance with a cool, level gaze.

"Is this a bad time?" she asked calmly. "I could come back later--"

"No, no--come on in." Isabel stood back and ushered her into the entrance hall.

Magdalene bent just enough to reach the two medium-sized suitcases on the stoop one on either side of her, then walked in, glancing around the house with the same mildly curious look she'd given Isabel.

"The living room's on the left," Isabel instructed, pointing at the arched doorway. "I could go ahead show you to the guest room if you like."

Just then Mike appeared, looking unruffled as usual, and Magdalene's expression turned knowing, one eyebrow arching in a clear "Oh, I see" look.

"Magdalene, you remember Mike, don't you?" Isabel said by way of re-introduction.

"Indeed I do," she replied, a sparkle in her eye that indicated very clearly that she hadn't forgotten the circumstances of their original meeting. "I'm pleased to see you again."

"Mike, I think I told you Magdalene will be staying with me for a while," Isabel continued, throwing him a subtle reminder.

"Sure," he said, nodding at Magdalene. "Nice to see you again too. Here--let me help you with those."

He strode over and took her luggage which she willingly handed over, then he looked to Isabel for instructions.

"Just put them in the guest room," she said, and as he headed up the stairs, Isabel turned to her new room-mate with a wry smile. "Well..." she said slowly, spreading her hands and then letting them fall to her sides again. "Welcome to the beach," she said lamely, not sure what to say to this reserved, self-contained young woman.

"Thank you," Magdalene replied gravely. "I'm sure I'll like it here. Very much."

~*~*~

"Magdalene, I have to go next door to rehearse," Isabel said as she set aside the still unfinished article and covered her typewriter. "I hate to leave you here by yourself on your first night, so if you want to come over and watch, you can."

Magdelene glanced at her from where she sat reading on the couch--not stretched out but sitting ramrod straight, her legs crossed at the ankle, still dressed in a starched white shirt with a matching dull beige skirt and jacket--and gave Isabel a surprised look.

"I'm a stranger--" she began, but Isabel cut her off with a dismissive wave as she stood up and pushed in her chair.

"You already know Mike, and the other three have never met a stranger--especially not a female one," she replied, smiling. "Come on over. You can critique our performance."

Magdalene watched her silently for a long moment as if assessing the sincerity of the invitation, then she slowly nodded and rose gracefully to her feet. "All right, I will."

Isabel led her over to the Pad and, once they reached the front door, put her hand on the knob to turn it.

"You just walk in?" Magdalene asked, sounding shocked.

Startled by the question, Isabel glanced at her and nodded as she opened the door. "Well, yeah," she said slowly. "We're pretty informal around here."

"Do they have to the same privilige at your house?"

"Mike does," she said. "The others usually knock, though."

From the look on her face, Magdalene appeared to be taken aback by the whole idea, but she didn't have time to process it completely before they were inside and Isabel began the introductions.

"We've got an audience tonight, guys," she announced, and three heads turned to look at her. "I'd like you to meet Magdalene Bennett. She's going to be staying with me for a while."

Mike, whom she'd already met, simply nodded hello, but Peter and Davy hurried over to get properly acquainted. Peter, who was in the kitchen, reached her first and held out his hand with a cheerful, bedimpled smile.

"Magdalene, this is Peter Tork. He's our resident Horatio," Isabel said, and Magdelene shook his hand with a polite smile of her own.

Then Peter stepped back to make way for Davy, who tipped her a charming grin and winked. "Hello, love!" he greeted her cheerfully, capturing her hand and raising it to his lips. Magdalene gazed down at him, her features etched in stone, obviously uncharmed.

"And this is Davy Jones," Isabel said with a note of repressed amusement in her voice. "Our Laertes." Then she frowned, glancing around expectantly. "Where's Micky--?"

"Upstairs," Mike replied, jerking a thumb towards the steps. "He'll be down in a minute."

Speak of the devil, Isabel thought as she heard the clatter of feet upstairs, the bang of the bedroom door--and then Micky's high-pitched "Whee!" as he slid down the banister, landing with a THUMP! directly in front of Magdalene.

"Who're you?" he asked, fixing her with a curious but friendly stare.

"Magdalene Bennett," she replied softly, her voice uncharacteristically subdued.

"She'll be my room-mate for a while," Isabel supplied helpfully. "Until she can find another job. Magdalene, this is Micky Dolenz, our gravedigger."

"Hi!" He turned the full force of one of his sunny grins on her as he held out his hand. "Nice to meetcha, Mags."

"Nice to meet you, too," she said as she shook his hand, and nearby Isabel watched, shamelessly fascinated, as Magdalene gazed raptly into his eyes.

"You guys ready?" Micky dropped her hand and whirled around to face the others, seeming oblivious to Magdalene's reaction. "We're going to do my big scene, right?"

"Yeah," Mike drawled as he headed for their makeshift stage. "Just remember that bit about clowns not speakin more than they got written for em."

In response, Micky blew a raspberry at Mike, then dashed past him to the stage, striking a dramatic pose in the center, the back of his hand pressed to his forehead as he waited for the others to join him.

Since Ophelia's corpse hadn't been brought in and Laertes hadn't yet arrived, Isabel and Davy perched on the couch, hanging over the back as they waited for the others to begin. Magdalene quietly took a seat on the black chaise, folding her hands in her lap as she prepared to watch.

As Mike and Peter approached one side of the stage, Micky hefted an imaginary shovel and began to dig, launching into the Gravedigger's song to a tune of his own invention: "A pickaxe and a spade, a spade,/ for and a shrouding sheet./ O a pit of clay for to be made/ for such a guest is meet."

He paused, pretended to wipe sweat from his brow, then resumed digging, still humming. Mike and Peter took that as their cue to approach, and Mike stepped forward, addressing Micky.

"Whose grave's this, sirrah?" he asked, and Micky glanced at him over his shoulder, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

"Mine, Sir, or a pit of clay for to be made," he replied with a courteous nod of his head.

"I think it be thine indeed," Mike replied sarcastically, folding his arms. "For thou liest in it."

Micky threw down his "shovel" and drew himself upright, pretending to be insulted. "You lie out on't, Sir, and therefore it is not yours," he pointed out. "For my part, I do not lie in't, yet it is mine."

"Thou dost lie in't, to be in't and say it is thine," Mike countered, smiling as he fell into the gravedigger's little word-game. "Tis for the dead, not for the quick: therefore, thou liest." Behind him, Peter snickered, covering his mouth with one hand.

"Tis a quick lie, Sir," Micky replied, resuming his digging. "Twill away again from me to you."

"What man dost thou dig it for?"

"For no man, Sir," Micky replied promptly.

Mike shot a bemused look at Peter over his shoulder, and Peter grinned back at him, moving to stand closer to him, resting his hand on Mike's shoulder as he listened to the conversation.

"What woman then?" Mike asked patiently.

"For none neither," came the reply, and their audience--if not Hamlet and Horatio--could see that the Gravedigger was chuckling quietly to himself.

"Who is to be buried in't?"

"One that was a woman, Sir," Micky said, straightening and pressing one hand to his heart and bowing his head briefly in a respectful gesture. "But rest her soul, she's dead," he concluded matter-of-factly, swiftly shucking his reverential demeanor and resuming his task once more.

"How absolute the knave is," Mike remarked, his tone laced with equal parts amusement and astonishment, and Peter laughed again, shaking his head. "We must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us. How long will a man lie in the earth ere he rot?"

"Faith," Micky paused, appearing to deliberate this question seriously. "If he be not rotten before 'a die," he mused, "'A will last you some eight year or nine year." He stooped over and picked up a bowl they were using as a skull in place of the prop Sasha kept at the theater. "Here's a skull now hath lain you in the earth three and twenty years," he said, tossing the bowl in the air a couple of times before holding it out for Hamlet to see.

"Whose was it?" Mike asked, more out of politeness than interest, and behind him, Peter peered over his shoulder for a better look.

"Whose do you think it was?" Micky replied, pretending to juggle the bowl.

"Nay," Mike shrugged. "I know him not."

"A pestilence on him for a mad rogue!" Micky exclaimed. "'A poured a flagon of Renish on my head once!" He wagged an admonishing finger at the "skull" and frowned at it sternly. "This same skull, Sir, was Sir Yorick's skull, the King's jester."

Mike stared at him, wide-eyed with shock, then he pointed at the "skull." "This?" he asked, his tone hushed.

"E'en that," Micky confirmed with a nod.

Mike moved to stand near Micky, taking the "skull" from him and cradling it carefully, gazing down at it with a soft, almost dreamy expression.

"Alas, poor Yorick," he sighed. "I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath bore me on his back a thousand times, and now how abhorred in my imagination it is. My gorge rises at it," he said with a shudder. "Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft," he said, raising the bowl to eye level and sketching the air where a mouth would be. "Where be your jibes now?" he added, his voice both wistful and sorrowful. "Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing," he addressed Peter, who hurried to join him, watching him with growing concern.

"What's that, my lord?" he asked softly.

"Dost thou think Alexander looked a' this fashion in the earth?"

"E'en so," Peter nodded.

Then, suddenly, Mike thrust the "skull" to arm's length and wrinkled his nose, turning to Peter with a disgusted look. "And smelt so--pah!"

And Peter chuckled at that as he replied, "E'en so, my lord."

"'Ey! D'you want me to come in now?" Davy interrupted loudly, bouncing up and down on the sofa cushions as he demanded their attention.

Mike, Peter and Micky glanced up at him, all three of them looking momentarily dazed as if they'd forgotten there were others in the room. Then Micky shook his head and grabbed the bowl back from Mike.

"No, I want to go over this part again--hey, what'd you guys think?" he asked, his expression hopeful and expectant. "Did I do okay?"

"Very nice," Isabel replied, giving him a thumbs-up.

"Very nice indeed," Magdalene added quietly, earning a brief but friendly smile from Micky, but only Isabel noticed the sudden glow that lit her eyes for a long time afterwards.


	3. Chapter 3

Proper Guest Protocal had been drilled too deeply into Isabel's psyche by her grandmother to let her leave Magdalene unattended while she was still adjusting to her new surroundings, thus Magdalene found herself dragged to the dress rehearsal and, once there, shanghai'd into the role of temporary prop girl. Sasha had the cast form a line while Magdalene stood at the costume rack and handed out each cast member's costume--all of which were covered by black plastic bags with the character's name on a label--as they approached her.

Sasha hadn't given them any indication of what their costumes would look like except to say that she planned to do more of a modern dress than historical reproduction performance. Davy was practically vibrating with excitement, picturing himself in a dashing outift a la Errol Flynn complete with a rapier, while Mike waited his turn with a growing sense of dread, hoping he wouldn't end up looking too ridiculous.

Micky was the first of them to emerge from the dressing room, delighted with his costume which consisted of a light grey, wrinkled shirt with the sleeves rolled up, charcoal trousers with a matching vest, and a battered, shapeless cap that he perched atop his unruly curls at a rakish angle. The make-up girl had smudged his face, arms and hands to make him appear dirty, which made his nose itch, but it was a small price to pay for what he considered to be a perfect finishing touch.

Peter was next, dressed very near to his everyday appearance in faded jeans, a blue-green nehru shirt, love beads--which were his own contribution--moccasin boots, and a peace symbol painted in black on his left cheek.

"Hah-hah! Have at you!" Davy cried as he burst out from backstage and dodged and weaved his way through the milling crowd on-stage to reach Peter, jabbing at him lightly with the covered tip of his fencing sword.

"Peace, man," Peter replied mildly, flashing the two-fingered peace sign at him before pushing away the sword.

Disappointed by the reaction, Davy went off in search of another victim, inordinately pleased with his costume and his prop. His shirt was the bright crimson of freshly-spilt blood with a high mandarin collar, and its sleeves were long, fitting his arms somewhat tightly from shoulder to wrist. His trousers were black, tucked into knee-high black boots, and he felt quite the swashbuckler.

"Well, what do you think?" Isabel asked Magdalene as she stepped out of the ladies' dressing room, holding her arms out perpendicular to her sides, preparing for inspection.

"Very appropriate," Magdalene replied, taking in the details of Ophelia's costume.

It was a sleeveless, pure white gown with an Empire waist and a three-layered skirt made of a sheer, gauzy material with a jagged hemline; Isabel was to go barefoot with her hair down and loose, giving her the appearance of a waifish, ethereal Flower Child.

"Sasha said the uneven hem was supposed to be a visual representation of Ophelia's latent instability," Magdalene added as they wandered on-stage together, and Isabel nodded understanding.

"That makes sense," she agreed, peering around at the crowd to see if she could spot the others. "Oh, look--there's Peter and Micky," she said, pointing them out where they stood on the opposite side of the stage. "And Davy--" She located him engaged in a mock-duel with "Claudius" near the back. "I don't see Mike, though..."

As if on cue, a few moments later, Mike emerged from the backstage shadows, a walking shadow himself all in black. Unlike Davy's, his shirt was cut along looser lines with full, draping sleeves that were tight only at the wrist and a V-neck that laced rather than buttoned, and he hadn't threaded the laces through the top two holes. His snug pants were black, as were his boots, and the outfit somehow managed to make him appear taller and even more somber than usual.

"Oh, man..." Isabel released a sigh of admiration. "He looks edible."

"He sure does," Magdalene replied dreamily, jolting Isabel out of her reverie and causing her to snap her head around to stare at her new room-mate in undiluted shock.

"What ?!" she demanded--and then she realized that Magdalene wasn't even looking in the same direction she was.

No, her gaze was directed towards the other side of the stage where Micky was currently singing "Chim Chim Chiree" and dancing a la Dick Van Dyke.

Isabel covered the knowing smile blooming on her lips with her fingers, regarding the other girl with a growing sense of camraderie. She had suspected that there was more to Magdalene than met the eye, that there was something lurking under that prim-and-proper exterior just waiting to get out--or to be released. The mere fact that she was so obviously besotted by someone who on the surface appeared to be her complete and total opposite spoke volumes about the real Magdalene Bennett, and Isabel made a silent promise to herself that she would undertake the job of learning who that girl was.

And hopefully, a certain drummer would find out as well...

~*~*~

Davy let out an agonized wail of grief as he threw himself to the ground beside Ophelia's corpse, clasping his hands together and lifting them in an appeal to heaven, actual tears springing into his eyes as he began his lament.

"Oh, treble woe fall ten times on that cursed head whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense deprived thee of!" His head snapped up, and he glared at Micky, who seemed to be preparing the grave for the body. Davy threatened him with a fist, and Micky backed away, appearing suitably intimidated.

"Hold off the earth a while, till I have caught her once more in mine arms." With that, he gathered Isabel in his arms, cradling her limp form as he sobbed out his brotherly grief.

"Watch that hand, Jones," Isabel muttered out of the corner of her mouth, and he broke character long enough to grin devilishly at her.

Hamlet burst forth from his hiding place, striding across the stage to the gravesite, followed by a pensive Horatio, and, ignoring Laertes, he knelt by the dead maiden's side. The blocking for this scene had proved problematic in the early rehearsals because, as Mike had pointed out, "Davy's supposed to come at me, and I'm supposed to tell him to get his hands off my neck, but he can't even reach my neck."

"We could get a box," Micky had suggested helpfully, earning dark glares from Davy and Sasha and giggles from Peter and the not-quite-dead" Ophelia.

In the end, they had decided the best approach might be to have Mike kneel down and Davy stand up before the attack, making it easier for all involved. Thus Davy sprang to his feet, uncoiling with the speed of a striking snake as he shot a poisonous glare at Hamlet, who appeared to be shocked at the sight of Ophelia's corpse.

"The devil take thy soul," Davy hissed, launching himself at Mike, sending them both tumbling to the floor as Davy fastened his hands in a loose--but convincing--hold around Mike's neck. Mike grabbed Davy's wrists, glaring a warning of his own up at Laertes.

"I prithee take thy fingers from my throat," he growling menacingly. "For, though I am not spleenative rash, yet have I in me something dangerous, which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand!"

As they rolled around the gravesite in an increasingly heated wrestling match, Micky caught Davy around the shoulders and struggled to pull him off Mike while Peter tried to pry loose Davy's fingers. As soon as the fight had been stopped, Davy shrugged off Micky's restraining grip, straightening his shoulders as he glowered at his dead sister's ex. Meanwhile, Peter helped Mike to his feet, keeping a supporting arm around him as he softly crooned, "Good my lord, be quiet."

"I loved Ophelia," he replied, his voice laden with regret and sorrow, and when he turned to face Horatio, his expression made him appear shattered with grief. "Forty thousand brothers could not with all the quantity of love make up my sum."

Davy let out an outraged cry and lunged forward as if to attack again, but Micky and Claudius were quick to stop his progress, and Peter stepped protectively in front of Mike so that Laertes had to content himself with silently snarling at Hamlet.

"What is the reason that you use me thus?" Mike stared at Davy in astonishment at his wordless but vitriolic threats. "I loved you ever, but it is no matter: Let Hercules himself do what he may. The cat will mew, and dog will have his day."

With that, he turned to leave; Claudius beseeched Peter, "I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him," but he needn't have bothered. Peter had already slipped his arm around Mike's shoulders and, with a countenance full of sympathy and compassion, led him off-stage as Davy glared daggers at their retreating backs.

~*~*~

"Isabel..." Magdalene began slowly, fixing her new room-mate with a searching gaze as she sat ramrod straight at one end of the couch while Isabel curled up on the other, her legs tucked under her, a book cradled in her lap.

Isabel glanced up from her reading, and Magdalene clasped her hands tightly together, uncertain how to ask what she wanted to know. Invading another person's privacy was anathema to her, but she needed some specific information so she would know exactly what to expect and how to act.

"About you and Mike..." she continued slowly, feeling a dull heat in her cheeks, an unfamiliar, unpleasant sensation. She didn't like putting herself in the position to be embarrassed, but she didn't have a choice.

"What about us?" Isabel asked, her expression quizzical.

"You aren't--" Magdalene faltered, took a deep breath and regrouped. Sometimes bluntness was the best approach, and she plunged in headlong. "I'm not going to be in the way, am I?"

Putting her book aside for the moment, Isabel leaned her cheek against her fist as she propped her arm on the back of the couch, regarding Magdalene speculatively.

"Well," she said at last. "I have to admit that my place has been our refuge. Privacy is unheard of next door, so we usually come over here to get a few minutes alone. But I don't want you to feel like you're intruding," she added hastily. "You're not. We can work out a schedule or something."

Magdalene nodded, but that wasn't the extent of what she wanted to know, and she braced herself to continue.

"What about--nights?" she asked softly, dropping her gaze to her lap. It wasn't any of her business, and she hated to seem like she was snooping, but she didn't want to cause herself or them undue embarrassment by stumbling onto an intimate scene better left unwitnessed.

"Nights...?" Isabel echoed, giving her a blank stare.

Then she started, comprehension dawning on her face. "Ohhhh!" she breathed, her eyes wide. "You mean...nights."

Magdalene nodded, and Isabel laughed quietly.

"Don't worry," she said with a bemused smile. "We don't do 'nights'."

"You don't?" It was Magdalene's turn to look blank. "But you seem so--close. I thought--" She cut herself off when she realized she was running the risk of either sounding incredibly nosy or annoying Isabel, neither of which she wanted to do.

Fortunately, Isabel didn't seem upset; she chuckled again, a wicked grin curving her lips as she replied, "I didn't say we don't want to. I just said we don't do it."

"What are you waiting for?"

Isabel gaped at her, visibly shocked, and she had to resist the urge to clap her hands over her mouth. Where had that come from? She never asked questions like that before! Isabel was going to hate her--to throw her out--to be furious with her for prying into things that were none of her business--

"Well..." Isabel said slowly, and Magdalene was astounded that she seemed to be seriously pondering the idea. "It's a big step," she answered at last. "A big commitment. It's not a decision I can take lightly, and he respects that. I'll know when I'm ready, but I'm not quite there yet."

She paused, tossed Magdalene a mischievous look and added, "Anything else?"

Magdalene thought for a moment, then shook her head gravely. "Not at the moment, but if I think of anything, I'll let you know."

"You do that," Isabel replied, unfolding herself from the couch and heading for the kitchen. "I'm getting a Coke. You want one?"

"No, thank you," she answered politely. "I don't like Coke very much."

But her thoughts turned a different way entirely as Isabel disappeared into the kitchen. _Yes, there is something I want_ , Magdalene thought, visions of Micky Dolenz playing in her head.

She could picture him so vividly--smiling, singing, seeming to light up the room the moment he walked in. And on those rare occasions that he actually looked at her, she felt as if her breath had been squeezed from her lungs, as if her heart had forgotten how to beat.

_But I don't think I can have him._


	4. Chapter 4

"I'm going to pass out..."

"You're not gonna pass out," Mike replied firmly, massaging Isabel's neck as she leaned on both hands against the counter in front of the make-up mirror in the ladies' dressing room.

Anne hadn't yet arrived, so he had remained with her for a few moments, trying to help assuage the sudden bout of stage-fright she was suffering as the time for the curtain to rise drew nearer. They had only a matter of minutes now, and Isabel was feeling the last-minute pressure. Accustomed to performing in front of live audiences, Mike was much more at ease with the idea. Granted, he was used to singing, not trying to reel off Elizabethan English, but still, he was nowhere near as jittery as she was.

"You're gonna do fine," he assured her.

"Easy for you to say--"

"Oh, yeah--easy for me to say," he retorted. "You don't have a hundred soliloquies to get through!"

She glanced up at him, meeting his eyes in the mirror, her expression shifting from fretful to bemused.

"Touche," she admitted, and he smiled slightly. "But you don't have to sing."

"Yeah, maybe Sasha should have cast that other girl..."

"You--!"

She reached around and swatted him as best she could, but she wasn't about to turn around to do it. That would have meant giving up the neck rub, and she was enjoying it far too much to make him stop. Instead, she sighed and closed her eyes, feeling her tension begin to dissipate a little, soothed away by his gentle fingers.

Mike regarded their images in the mirror, noticing for the first time what an unusual pair they made, and he wondered if anyone else ever looked at them together and thought them mismatched. They were both in costume already--Isa in white, himself in black--which emphasized the disparity between them. The tall and the short of it, he thought with a silent chuckle. But he'd known for some time now that the differences between them lay mostly on the surface. When it came to what was inside, past the superficial layers, the number of similarities were almost frightening.

"What's made you go pensive all of a sudden?" she asked, and he glanced up at her mirror-face to see her dark eyes fixing him with a piercing gaze.

"Just runnin through that 'too too solid flesh' part again," he improvised. "It's still givin me trouble."

He slid his hands along the curve of her neck to rest on her shoulders and turned her around to face him, and she promptly linked her arms around his waist.

"You're gonna be fine," he assured her. "Don't worry. You can do this--even the singin."

She rolled her eyes at that, but smiled nonetheless. "Thanks," she replied, sounding much calmer than she had a few minutes before.

"No problem--now I better get out of here before Anne shows up," he said, leaning down to kiss her briefly before backing away and heading for the door. "See you on stage."

"Break a leg!"

~*~*~

"I am satisfied in nature," Davy said coldly, his demeanor unyielding as he responded to Hamlet's attempt to make peace. "Whose motive in this case should stir me most to my revenge, but in my terms of honor I stand aloof, and will no reconcilement til by some elder masters of known honor I have a voice and president of peace to keep my name ungor'd. But all that time I do receive your offer'd love like love," he sneered, clearly indicating he doubted Hamlet's sincerity. "And will not wrong it."

"I embrace it freely," came the reply, but Mike's guarded expression showed that he sensed the animosity despite the seeming acceptance of his apology. "And will this brother's wager frankly play. Give us the foils." He gestured impatiently to the servant who held an array of weapons. "Come on!"

"Come, one for me!" Davy demanded sharply as soon as Mike had chosen a foil.

Davy examined the remaining selections, picked up one at random, hefted it experimentally, then replaced it with a dismissive wave. "This is too heavy. Let me see another."

He gestured to another servant, who carried two more weapons--one of which was the poisoned blade--and, as Mike frowned with growing distrust at this exchange, Davy snatched up the tainted foil and struck an en garde pose.

The two eyed each other warily as Claudius ran through his pearl speech and drank to Hamlet's good fortune--a deliberate irony given that the pearl he dropped into the cup after he had taken a sip was coated with poison as well.

"Come on, sir," Mike taunted, waving his free hand in a "come and get me" gesture, knowing he was provoking Laertes' temper.

With a vicious snarl, Davy lunged forward, anger diminishing his skill, and Mike easily stepped out of the way, lightly tapping Davy on the rear with the flat of his foil as Davy stumbled past.

"Come, my lord!" Davy spat, disgusted, obviously itching to begin the fight in earnest--he had no patience for games.

Mike gave a mocking little bow--and the skirmish began. Davy lunged and parried with a fierce intensity, forcing Mike to back up, but never managing to score a hit on him. It was obvious that Hamlet was simply waiting for Laertes to expend his anger; until he calmed down, it wouldn't be an equal fight.

Sasha had initially been concerned that the audience would find a fiesty little bantam trying to do battle with a stork more amusing than anything else, but once they began working on the choreography, she realized that it wouldn't matter. Davy's ferocious exhuberance made the on-lookers forget his height, and he and Mike both exhibited a surprising agility that made their duel seem more like a dance.

But the passion that spurred Laertes on also made him careless; he left himself open, and Hamlet nicked his side.

"One!" Mike exclaimed, and Davy whirled on him, enraged.

"No!" he shouted his protest.

But the moderator shook his head. "A hit," he said, quailing a little in the face of Davy's growing wrath. "A very palpable hit."

"Well..." Davy released a long, slow breath, glaring at Mike. "Again."

The two opponants moved as if to square off again, but Claudius interrupted, offering the poisoned cup.

"Hamlet!" he called with mock-joviality. "This pearl is thine: here's to thy health. Give him the cup."

A servant dashed forward, took the cup and offered it to Mike, who took it and appeared to be on the verge of drinking; he raised the goblet to his lips--and then lowered it again and handed it back to the servant.

"I'll play this bout first," he said casually. "Set it by a while."

Calmer now, Davy approached this round with grim determination, and this time, Hamlet was no longer playful; they met as equals, and the only sound in the hushed auditorium was the scrape of metal as their foils met, the muffled thud of their footsteps as they lunged and dodged.

Davy thrust his foil at Mike, who blocked it--and they each struggled to overthrow the other. Shoving and straining, they circled until at last Hamlet managed to push his opponant off--Laertes stumbled, leaving his stomach unguarded as he threw out his arms to keep himself balance--and Hamlet scored again.

"Come, another hit!" he cried. "What say you?"

"A touch," Davy ground out through gritted teeth. "A touch, I do confess't," although it was obvious the confession rankled.

Their expressions were somber as they faced each other again as if both knew the seriousness lurking beneath this supposedly "friendly" duel. There was much more at stake here, and they were both acutely aware of the undercurrent of tension arcing between now.

They fought in silence, both exhibiting signs of extreme exertion as each struggled to gain the upper hand over the other, but in the end this time, they pushed away from each other, panting, obviously fatigued--and scoreless on both sides.

Davy scowled at Mike, who stood with his back partially to Davy, one hand on his stomach as he fought to catch his breath, his foil dangling limply from his hand. Without warning, Davy exclaimed, "Have at you now!" and lunged forward, stabbing Mike in the side with his uncovered foil, and Mike cried out, clutching his wound as he whirled to face Laertes.

With a low, furious growl, Mike made a grab for Davy, dropping his foil in the process; what had been a civilized contest degenerated into a brawl with cries of "Part them!" "Look to't!" "They are incens'd!" from all sides.

Peter ran to break up the fight, throwing himself in front of Mike, pushing him back and simultaneously warding off Davy; Mike snatched up the nearest foil and darted around Peter, intent on going after Laertes again, but Davy took one look at the weapon Hamlet had picked up--the uncovered, poisoned one--and immediately began dodging and weaving, trying to avoid being cut by that fatal blade. But Hamlet was angry now--and too quick for him. Hamlet feinted one way; Laertes fell for the ruse, and when he tried to dart away, Hamlet managed to cut him, and the chase ended, Mike staring at Davy in grim triumph as Davy's face registered horror at what had just occurred.

"They bleed on both sides," Peter gasped, sprinting over to Mike, his face etched in taut, worried lines as he bent to examine the wound with gentle fingers; Mike winced as if the slight touch pained him, and Peter's expression grew even more concerned. "How is it, my lord?" he asked softly, and Mike opened his mouth as if to answer--just as Gertrude collapsed in an untidy heap, writhing as if in unbearable agony.

"How does the queen?" Mike exclaimed, tearing himself away from Peter's minstering hands to rush to Gertrude's side.

"She swoons to see them bleed," the king replied with false joviality, but Gertrude roused herself enough to sit up and shake her head, her features contorted with fear.

Off to one side, Davy doubled over, staggering, his expression filled with agony, and then his legs seemed to give out beneath him, and he fell, squirming and rolling in his death-throes.

"No!" she cried, stretching out her hand to Hamlet, who knelt by her side and took it in both his own. "No," she shook her head again, weaker this time. "The drink...The drink...O, my dear Hamlet..." She reached up and caressed her son's cheek as he gazed down at her, stricken, helpless to ease her pain. "The drink...The drink...I am poisoned..." With that, her strength was depleted, and she slumped in Hamlet's arms--dead.

Hamlet bowed his head over his mother's body, his shoulders shaking, and when he looked up again, his face was suffused with pure rage.

"O, villainy!" he howled, clenching his fists as he leaped to his feet, grabbing up the foil he had dropped again, glancing wildly around as if he could discover the murderer that way. "How? Let the door be lock'd! Treachery! Seek it out!"

"It is here, Hamlet!" Davy cried, his tone filled with remorse. "Thou art slain--no medicine in the world can do thee good. In thee there is not half an hour's life. The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, unbated and envenom'd. The foul practice hath turn'd itself on me," he confessed, struggling to sit up and failing. "Lo, here I lie, never to rise again. Thy mother's poison'd--" He broke off, his features tortured as if he were in unbearable pain. "I can no more--The king--the king's to blame--" he gasped, then collapsed.

Mike whirled around to face Claudius, his expression one of murderous wrath; he examined the foil, discovering the truth of Laertes' words for himself--the tip was indeed uncovered.

"The point envenom'd too," he said slowly, almost as if he were musing. "Then venom to thy work!" he cried, and--without warning--rushed forward and impaled Claudius on the length of the sword.

Claudius screamed, reeling from the force of the blow as Hamlet yanked the weapon out again unceremoniously. "O yet defend me, friends--I am but hurt!" But Mike hovered over the dying king, foil poised to strike, and no one moved to help.

Claudius staggered and fell to his knees, but apparently his death wasn't coming quickly enough, because Hamlet swiftly snatched up the poisoned goblet and, grabbing Claudius by the hair, forced his head back and poured the tainted wine down his throat.

"Here, thou incestuous, murd'rous, damned Dane--drink of this potion! Follow my mother!"

Gagging and choking, Claudius tumbled to the floor, and Hamlet watched impassively as the villainous king died at his feet.

"He is justly serv'd," Davy gasped, stretching out one hand imploringly to Mike. "Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet. Mine and my father's death come not upon thee, nor thine on me."

Mike crossed the stage quickly and clasped Davy's hand in his own. "Heaven make thee free of it," he assured Laertes, his voice laced with compassion. "I follow thee."

With one last, grateful look, Laertes gasped, convulsed once--and died. Mike gently placed Davy's hand on his chest and glanced sorrowfully up at Peter, who had hurried to his side and now stood hovering fretfully over him.

"I am dead, Hortatio," he said quietly, his face almost expressionless.

Peter shook his head in disbelief, obviously not wanting to accept the truth, and he appeared to be close to tears. Mike tried to stand up, but wavered, pressing one hand to his head as if he were dizzy, and he sat down heavily again.

"Wretched queen, adieu," he added, casting a mournful look at Gertrude," and then he toppled, unable to hold himself upright any longer. "Had I but time, as this fell Sergeant Death is strict in his arrest, O, I could tell you--but let it be." He shook his head, his tone resigned. "Horatio, I am dead. Thou livest. Report me and my cause aright to the unsatisfied."

Peter shook his head violently, then suddenly darted over to the king's body, seizing the cup that lay nearby. Tears filled his eyes as he looked at his dying friend, and when he spoke, his voice was filled with despair.

"Never believe it. I am more an antique Roman than a Dane." He examined the cup and apparently was satisfied with what he found. "Here's yet some liquor left."

He raised the cup to his lips, but before he could drink, Hamlet called on the last remaining reserves of his waning strength, pushing himself up from the floor and staggering across the stage.

"As thou'rt a man, give me the cup," he pleaded desperately, holding out one hand, but Peter shook his head again, obstinately putting the rim of the goblet to his lips, but before he could drink, Mike reached him and slapped the cup out of his hand. "Let go!" he demanded. "If thou did'st ever hold me in thy heart, absent thee from felicity a while and in this harsh world draw thy breath to tell my story--"

He broke off suddenly, and Peter caught Mike in his arms, supporting him as he carefully lowered Hamlet to the floor; Mike clutched Peter's arms convulsively, seeming to draw on Horatio's strength as he fought to speak one last time.

"O, I die, Horatio, the potent poison quite o'er-throws my spirit," he murmured, leaning against Peter's shoulder, and Peter cradled him gently, weeping openly. "I cannot live to hear the news from England, but I do prophesy th' election lights on Fortinbrasse. He has my dyin voice. So tell him."

He seemed to relax then and patted Horatio's arm affectionately.

"The rest is silence."

And with a shudder, he died.

Peter gathered Hamlet close, a low keening filling his throat. "Now cracks a noble heart!" he sobbed, tears clogging his voice. "Good night, sweet Prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!"

~*~*~

"Woo!" Micky let out an exhuberent shout as he burst into the Pad where the opening night cast party was in full swing. "Time to celebrate!"

The cast members who'd already arrived--which was most at that point--acknowledged him with a rousing cheer, and he plunged into the midst of the celebration, weaving his way to the kitchen where he quickly deposited the bags of snacks and drinks he'd picked up on the way home as last-minute suppliments to their supply.

He spotted his friends clustered together near the bandstand--on which they had replaced their instruments--and hurried over to join them. Davy was still brimming over with enthusiasm, high on the applause and the congratulations, and he ran to meet Micky, grinning broadly as he grabbed his room-mate in a tight bearhug.

"'Ey!" he exclaimed. "There's our clown! Great job, man!"

Laughing, Micky hugged him back, literally lifting him off the ground in the process. "Groovy death scene, man!" he replied. "That jerking around at the end was really cool."

Peter joined them, dimples flashing in his cheeks as he embraced them both. "You sure got a lot of laughs, Micky," he said, and Micky grinned, feeling a fresh swell of pleasure at the memory. Despite his absorption in his role, he remembered being aware of the audience, of their reactions, and hearing their amused response to him had only encouraged him to relax and enjoy himself even more.

Magdalene stood back out of the way, watching as three of the four room-mates pounded each other on the back and exchanged noisy congratulations. Mike and Isabel were close by--indeed, Magdalene was using them as cover--and for once, they had let down their usual reserve; Mike had one arm draped across her shoulders, and she had reached up to clasp the hand he let dangle in front of her, slipping her other arm around his waist. Magdalene felt a slight pang of envy as she looked at them; like the rest of the cast, they were still in their black versus white costumes, which only exacerbated the fact that together they made a striking pair. Both dark-haired and dark-eyed, both naturally solemn-faced--his height compared to her petite stature only made him seem that much more her gallant protector...

I'm being a romantic fool again, Magdalene thought with a disgusted shake of her head. Schooling her features into a carefully neutral expression and forcing all such idealistic nonsense from her head, she turned her attention back to the celebrating friends, noting that they had expanded to include Mike and Isabel by now.

"Izzy, you made it through those tunes, hon--" Micky caroled as he caught her around the waist and spun her around. "But don't quit your day job!"

She laughed as she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on tight until he finally stopped whirling around and set her down again. "Don't worry!" she said at last. "You guys won't have any competition from me!"

He released her then, and she returned to Mike's side; Magdalene wished that she knew them well enough to be included in their tight circle of friendship, that she was the type of person who could laugh and tease as they did--but no sooner had the thought passed through her mind when suddenly she found herself caught up in a warm embrace.

Micky..., she realized, her mind abruptly shutting down all coherent thought.

She barely had time to register fleeting impressions--the feel of his arms around her, the solid warmth of his body against hers, the scent of his hair--and then he released her, moving out of reach again, flashing that lethal smile at her.

"Glad you could come, Mags," he told her cheerfully. "Hope you liked it!"

"Yes," she managed to get the word out without stammering, and she was inordinately proud of the accomplishment. "Very much."

"Great! Have fun at the party!" he enthused--and with that, he was gone, swallowed up by the crowd, and the next time she saw him, he was dancing with a pretty blonde girl.

Someone beautiful. Someone who knew how to laugh and dance and have fun.

Someone who was nothing like her at all.

~*~*~

"Well, we did it," Micky remarked softly much later that night after everyone had gone home and they had the place to themselves again. "We actually did it, and we didn't mess up."

"And you were so worried!" scoffed Davy, who was sprawled sideways in a chair, his legs dangling over the armrests.

"Yeah, well..." Micky shrugged and threw himself on the couch next to Peter. "It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be."

"Speak for yourself," Mike grumbled from where he sat with Isabel in the windowseat, close enough so that they could lean against each other ever so slightly. "You can be Hamlet tomorrow night and let Davy turn you into a pincushion."

Micky laughed, and Davy shot him an affronted look. "I never!" he exclaimed, righteously indignant.

"You drew blood, man--I got proof," Mike replied.

"Is that true, Izzy?" Micky teased, and she stuck her tongue out at him, but didn't answer.

"Well, I enjoyed it," Peter spoke up at last. "I never understood Shakespeare in school, but I get it now. It's all about life--about people. It's about us--our country, our world--the language is just a little different."

"You got it, Pete," Mike said with a nod, and Peter beamed.

"So when are we gonna do it again?" Micky piped up--and was felled under the sudden barrage of pillows from every corner of the room.


End file.
